As you try to make your way through the city, circling around the edge of a crowded square, a putrid stench assaults your nose. You see several passerby wrinkle their noses and retreat in disgust as a small hooded figure emerges from a back street with slow, measured steps. Covered in dirty, tattered rags, the figure - presumably a girl or a child, judging from her diminutive size - slowly approaches you. "Spare a coin for a poor orphan, sir?" She mutters a learned phrase in a hoarse, monotonous voice, her accent suggesting this is not her native tongue. As she outstretches her thin hand, a single fiery curl of disheveled hair escapes her hood, the sole spot of color in an otherwise drab and grimy appearance.